Ah, I thought, just before heading to the checkout, I wonder if they have any ice-cube trays? Surely they must have, this supermarket is huge and has its own separate kitchen accessory department. But maybe it’s not in there.
Here, I’ll just ask this..
“Excuse me?”
..young, really hairy and quite peculiar looking man. He looked up from stacking a low shelf.
“Do you sell ice-cube trays? You know, for.. making ice-cubes.”
“Oh yeah probably do you want me to come and show you where?”
“No no, just point me in the right direction.”
He pointed.
“Over that way?”
“Yes about aisle 38 are you sure you don’t want me to come and show you?” his teeth seemed to reverberate when he spoke.
“No no, I’m sure I’ll be fine thanks.”
He scared me a bit.
I pushed my trolley down to aisle 38, which wouldn’t be it. Perhaps 40. Yes, this looked more like it.. But where. I trailed up and down an aisle of Tupperware. I couldn’t see it. There was another green uniformed man…
“Excuse me?”
This young man looked urgent and fraught and busy and redfaced. He stopped all the same.
“Do you sell ice-cube trays here? You know, for making ice-cubes in.”
“I don’t work in this bit. They keep moving stuff everywhere.”
He went and walked off down an aisle which homed crockery and cutlery, rather than the one we were standing in, which seemed appeared most likely. But what did I know?
“No,” he mumbled. “They keep moving stuff around. I don’t work in this section.”
“Dyou think you could find me someone who does work in this section?”
“Wait there.”
He scuttled away. I wasn’t hopeful of ever seeing him again. I hung out at the top of the Tupperware aisle with my trolley. It was a crap aisle. He didn’t come back.
I drifted downheartedly towards the adjacent clothes section. Last try. A middle-aged woman stood around but not at a checkout, looking spare. She wore a darker T-shirt which signified that she belonged to the clothes section.
“Excuse me,” I asked, hope flailing. “I don’t suppose you know where the ice-cube trays are kept?”
“Now,” she said. “Are they a band?”
I took a breath. Something inside me simmered, boiled, bloomed, ticked over. I breathed out.
“No. Doesn’t matter actually, thanks.”
I went to the checkout.
Wednesday, 3 November 2010
Thursday, 28 October 2010
six people behind
There she was again. About half a dozen people behind him in the passport queue, snaked back around the partition. Had she noticed him? Should he try and catch her eye? He turned his eyes back to his book and shuffled forwards again, smiling at the old lady in front. They had exchanged a few words when her husband was allowed out of the longer queue to pass through the empty gateway reserved for those with new electronic passports. “Just make sure he doesn’t get on the wrong flight now,” he'd told the lady. “It’s ok, I have his tickets. He can't go anywhere,” she said.
Now he glanced back over his shoulder at her again, she was looking away.
“Maybe see you on the flight back,” she had said when the taxi dropped him off a week ago. They’d shared a cab because no buses were forthcoming. Her friend was going to take an earlier return flight, she’d said, so now she was travelling alone. He didn’t find her attractive but she’d appeared clever and chatty a week ago, she was around his age, and he’d barely conversed with anyone for a week, not properly.
He shuffled forwards again, the old lady in front was beckoned to have her passport checked, before passing through to the gate. He resigned the pretence of reading the heavy book, and waited.
For fifteen minutes he sat under a small television screen with his laptop, half watching football highlights, half checking his emails, surprised there was a free connection in the lounge next to the runway.
Realising he was still quite alone and the seats around him hadn't filled with other waiting passengers, he checked over his shoulder. Fellow passengers were already queuing for the door, staff were tearing ticket stubs and people were slowly trickling out onto exposed concrete, towards the metal vessel. Still the queue back into the lounge was bottle-necked, a mess of fifty or so people straggled back out. Seats near the line were occupied by those apparently unfussed about the choice positions aboard the aircraft. He had wanted a window seat for the return flight but this now seemed unlikely. He slumped down onto a seat and waited for the clot of people to thin out.
She was sitting on a seat backing onto his. “Oh, hello,” he said, genuinely surprised because he hadn't noticed her when he'd decided to sit. “Hi!” she smiled, though she couldn’t have escaped if she’d wanted to. She wore wooden jewellery – earrings and a necklace. He didn’t know what he thought of it. Ikea?
They exchanged the story of their week, fast-paced and generally positive. He grew giddy with freely speaking to another person, aware of speaking unnecessarily fast, blurting. He slowed and let her speak. He noticed she was reading a chunky serious book he’d also read and would comment on, if time and circumstance allowed.
They kept chatting: the holiday, areas of the island, walking, the day when it rained, tourism, travel, vehicles, motorbikes, driving. This took them through the door and out onto the runway where the plane waited. They took the rear staircase into the aircraft, had their ticket stubs checked a final time and looked for seats in the mostly full plane. There weren’t two together anywhere, even across an aisle. She took an aisle seat; he found a window seat further down with extra leg room, sandwiched between an emergency exit and an old couple.
*
The aircraft came to a halt at its destination terminal and the aisle seated passengers lumbered out first, unlatching the overhead compartments to withdraw their hand luggage. They stood waiting while the window-seated sat waiting, and the middle-seated hovered half up, half down, waiting.
He saw her standing waiting further back. They exchanged brave, tired smiles.
During the flight he’d considered giving her a business card. Her line of work wasn’t far removed from his. He had clients like her employers. He had no other ulterior motives, although if she did, would he be averse..? She was bright and interesting. He often wondered if he could convince himself to do that, compromise on physical attraction, block it out and pretend it wasn’t an issue if there wasn't any, as long as someone, one reasonable enough person liked him. If he could go through the motions because it was better than continued, protracted, maddening solitariness. Perhaps he could do it, for a while.
Finally at the aisle, he turned to collect his bulky hand luggage from the overhead locker. Just out of grasp, it was slid in his direction by a fellow passenger: the nervous looking young man who he’d almost dropped the bag on when hoisting it into the locker before take-off. He’d put an apologetic hand on his shoulder and said that he thought he’d distract him from any fear of flying. People around them had laughed. There was a warm buzz. He felt briefly liked.
Now standing in the aisle with his bag, he realised that he was about half a dozen people in front of her again. Would he stop somewhere and give her his card, mention business, 'if your employer needs..?' He paced down the aircraft, down the steps, across the new exposed concrete, into a door and on down the long connecting corridors. He felt free and fast, unshackled by too much trailing hand luggage, children, babies or companions to keep pace with. Finally he was halted by the final passport control.
It wasn’t long before she joined the same queue, snaked about half a dozen people behind. Another exchange of tossed eyebrows; this whole passport nonsense eh?
He was summoned, boredly checked and waved through.
Having no other luggage to arrive on the carousels, there was nothing stopping him from walking out and away. But he paused, waited to see if she’d enter the baggage area soon. She wasn’t that far behind, after all, only six people or so. He waited for ten more seconds, gave up and passed under the Nothing To Declare sign.
Now he glanced back over his shoulder at her again, she was looking away.
“Maybe see you on the flight back,” she had said when the taxi dropped him off a week ago. They’d shared a cab because no buses were forthcoming. Her friend was going to take an earlier return flight, she’d said, so now she was travelling alone. He didn’t find her attractive but she’d appeared clever and chatty a week ago, she was around his age, and he’d barely conversed with anyone for a week, not properly.
He shuffled forwards again, the old lady in front was beckoned to have her passport checked, before passing through to the gate. He resigned the pretence of reading the heavy book, and waited.
For fifteen minutes he sat under a small television screen with his laptop, half watching football highlights, half checking his emails, surprised there was a free connection in the lounge next to the runway.
Realising he was still quite alone and the seats around him hadn't filled with other waiting passengers, he checked over his shoulder. Fellow passengers were already queuing for the door, staff were tearing ticket stubs and people were slowly trickling out onto exposed concrete, towards the metal vessel. Still the queue back into the lounge was bottle-necked, a mess of fifty or so people straggled back out. Seats near the line were occupied by those apparently unfussed about the choice positions aboard the aircraft. He had wanted a window seat for the return flight but this now seemed unlikely. He slumped down onto a seat and waited for the clot of people to thin out.
She was sitting on a seat backing onto his. “Oh, hello,” he said, genuinely surprised because he hadn't noticed her when he'd decided to sit. “Hi!” she smiled, though she couldn’t have escaped if she’d wanted to. She wore wooden jewellery – earrings and a necklace. He didn’t know what he thought of it. Ikea?
They exchanged the story of their week, fast-paced and generally positive. He grew giddy with freely speaking to another person, aware of speaking unnecessarily fast, blurting. He slowed and let her speak. He noticed she was reading a chunky serious book he’d also read and would comment on, if time and circumstance allowed.
They kept chatting: the holiday, areas of the island, walking, the day when it rained, tourism, travel, vehicles, motorbikes, driving. This took them through the door and out onto the runway where the plane waited. They took the rear staircase into the aircraft, had their ticket stubs checked a final time and looked for seats in the mostly full plane. There weren’t two together anywhere, even across an aisle. She took an aisle seat; he found a window seat further down with extra leg room, sandwiched between an emergency exit and an old couple.
*
The aircraft came to a halt at its destination terminal and the aisle seated passengers lumbered out first, unlatching the overhead compartments to withdraw their hand luggage. They stood waiting while the window-seated sat waiting, and the middle-seated hovered half up, half down, waiting.
He saw her standing waiting further back. They exchanged brave, tired smiles.
During the flight he’d considered giving her a business card. Her line of work wasn’t far removed from his. He had clients like her employers. He had no other ulterior motives, although if she did, would he be averse..? She was bright and interesting. He often wondered if he could convince himself to do that, compromise on physical attraction, block it out and pretend it wasn’t an issue if there wasn't any, as long as someone, one reasonable enough person liked him. If he could go through the motions because it was better than continued, protracted, maddening solitariness. Perhaps he could do it, for a while.
Finally at the aisle, he turned to collect his bulky hand luggage from the overhead locker. Just out of grasp, it was slid in his direction by a fellow passenger: the nervous looking young man who he’d almost dropped the bag on when hoisting it into the locker before take-off. He’d put an apologetic hand on his shoulder and said that he thought he’d distract him from any fear of flying. People around them had laughed. There was a warm buzz. He felt briefly liked.
Now standing in the aisle with his bag, he realised that he was about half a dozen people in front of her again. Would he stop somewhere and give her his card, mention business, 'if your employer needs..?' He paced down the aircraft, down the steps, across the new exposed concrete, into a door and on down the long connecting corridors. He felt free and fast, unshackled by too much trailing hand luggage, children, babies or companions to keep pace with. Finally he was halted by the final passport control.
It wasn’t long before she joined the same queue, snaked about half a dozen people behind. Another exchange of tossed eyebrows; this whole passport nonsense eh?
He was summoned, boredly checked and waved through.
Having no other luggage to arrive on the carousels, there was nothing stopping him from walking out and away. But he paused, waited to see if she’d enter the baggage area soon. She wasn’t that far behind, after all, only six people or so. He waited for ten more seconds, gave up and passed under the Nothing To Declare sign.
Thursday, 21 October 2010
getting away
I solemnly kicked the tyre one last time and told it not to be flat when I returned. It rested snug and full on the gravelly airport car park, but at half past eleven the following Monday night I did not want to be calling roadside rescue. On discovering the flat tyre, a neighbour had loaned a fancy electric pump, I had pumped the tyre, and despite parking it a short limp away from the closest garage overnight, pumped it had stayed. By not reporting the previous evening’s finding to a garage, it was a possibility I was gambling with and an outcome for which I should be prepared.
In the litany of queues which led to the aircraft, in front of me was an unnecessarily urgent, twitchy woman, the air of spinster about her, but with a man her age; and an elegant, attractive, solo-travelling woman was at my rear. I knew which I preferred to be sitting next to, and which not.
As it turned out, it was neither. By the time I boarded the sleasyjet budget flight, only aisle seats remained. I plonked myself next to an affluent looking couple and, specifically, a man with a boastfully loud voice and proud collar and tie. I was sure to give him no encouragement at all to speak to me, nodding a polite hello before opening a book.
The book was David Mitchell’s latest, highly rated, booker nominated effort. Only a short way in, I was struggling and disappointed with it. Little was going in. Half way through the flight I swapped it with Tom Perrotta’s debut (awful cover), which I’d picked up cheaply a couple of months earlier. As predicted, it was an easier read.
A sense of traveling inside a flying television advert was transmitted through most of the journey; that relentless cajoling of Stewards and Stewardesses to buy unnecessary and overpriced items. I’d never heard the term ‘ad-funded’ applied to flights, but saw no reason why it wasn’t. It seemed equally as applicable here as everywhere else. I wanted them all to leave me alone, yet there were folk like the affluent, proud but airy couple next to me who appeared to buy almost every time. Drinks, snacks, lottery tickets. “You’ll buy anything, won’t you?” I cheerfully commented to my neighbour at one point. Not sure he was too pleased.
The other surprising source of amusement was a generally well behaved eighteen month old. Confident, loved an audience, did little short of marching up and down the aisle towards the end, introducing herself and waiting to be cooed at – which she predictably was. I saw her father donate her mother his iPhone across the aisle, and attempt to entertain her with.. photographs (photographs?) – apparently unaware of the glut of iPhone applications which cater to tots. I donated my iPod, pointing out the Wheels On The Bus app. This was gratefully accepted and kept the infant entertained for a good half an hour. Further tips were given to mother and father when the plane came to a halt.
My hefty sports holdall had survived the crate size test without too much of a squeeze at departure, so had been allowed aboard as hand luggage, much to the surprise of my neighbour when I swapped Mitchell for Perrotta. “However did you get that on as hand luggage? It’s massive!”
This allowed me what would’ve been a quicker exit, had it not been for my need to buy a plug adapter, forgotten twice earlier in the day, and the need to rehydrate – having spurned all offers of heinously priced sleasydrinks.
Once this was done I exited the building and broached a hazy, sticky evening. No buses or commercial bus stops were quickly evident. I saw the two plain girls who’d been sitting around me on the plane inspecting a solitary signpost. “Have we figured it out yet then?” I asked as I approached. They turned round, smiling and human. One of them was half Portuguese so spoke the lingo. She also dressed like an old lady, a cardigan done up to the neck. We agreed to share a cab into town. During the twenty-minute ride I chatted with the other one in the back, a London born software engineer. Smart, well-travelled, interesting, not quite as plain as her friend. There was the unspoken potential of swapping details and meeting up while we were both in the area, and I was clearly alone. I considered offering a card but didn’t. We settled up the fare at a narrow old street which the cab driver assured me led to my hotel. “Maybe we’ll see you on the flight back!” one of them said. I nodded maybe, waved and clunked the door shut, before embarking on yet another frantic inventory-check of pockets. I had everything, yes, didn’t I? Yes. I had everything. They drove on.
The cab driver was correct; it was an easy, short walk. I was greeted by a plump, professional native receptionist with huge breasts and a low cut top. All that quite necessary leaning over the desk at forms was rather traumatising, the dark lolloping parting staring me out. Paperwork completed with the minimum of fuss, she handed me a key to Room 101. I knew a few people who might put me there.
Room 101 turned out to be rather better than just one room of bad, wrong things cast into oblivion for all of time. A large, high-ceilinged, ensuite bedroom adjoined a separate kitchen and living space, enabling me to cook from my paltry canon of meals and keep a reasonable amount of food. This cheered me, although this was tempered by finding that the power-points failed to match the adapter I’d bought in the airport.
However, that provided the next exchange of note. After a small grocery shop at a nearby supermarket I asked the checkout girl who was dutifully packing my bags for me. A short girl with a pretty cherub’s face, she somehow immediately knew my nationality and spoke to me in perfect English. I explained the plug dilemma and she wanted to help so much I was almost compelled to hug her. I said that I’d looked in the appropriate aisle but I didn’t see one, so not to worry. She seemed sure there were and, as there were no other customers, we walked back over. She was crestfallen to find there were none. I was sad and touched that she was so sad for me and I wanted to take her home. The customer service difference compared to back home bludgeoned me over the head with a baseball bat.
Zigzagging back through the muggy damp, hue-moistened streets to my apartment, I was stopped. “Eh, Amigo,” the handsome young guy of a handsome young couple said to me, before opening a map to consult. “Ai! Ingles, desculpe!” I shook my head, he tutted and shook his; his cute girlfriend smiled and we walked our separate ways, me floating lightly on the perverse thrill of being taken for a local here of all places, where most people are tanned and beautiful.
In the litany of queues which led to the aircraft, in front of me was an unnecessarily urgent, twitchy woman, the air of spinster about her, but with a man her age; and an elegant, attractive, solo-travelling woman was at my rear. I knew which I preferred to be sitting next to, and which not.
As it turned out, it was neither. By the time I boarded the sleasyjet budget flight, only aisle seats remained. I plonked myself next to an affluent looking couple and, specifically, a man with a boastfully loud voice and proud collar and tie. I was sure to give him no encouragement at all to speak to me, nodding a polite hello before opening a book.
The book was David Mitchell’s latest, highly rated, booker nominated effort. Only a short way in, I was struggling and disappointed with it. Little was going in. Half way through the flight I swapped it with Tom Perrotta’s debut (awful cover), which I’d picked up cheaply a couple of months earlier. As predicted, it was an easier read.
A sense of traveling inside a flying television advert was transmitted through most of the journey; that relentless cajoling of Stewards and Stewardesses to buy unnecessary and overpriced items. I’d never heard the term ‘ad-funded’ applied to flights, but saw no reason why it wasn’t. It seemed equally as applicable here as everywhere else. I wanted them all to leave me alone, yet there were folk like the affluent, proud but airy couple next to me who appeared to buy almost every time. Drinks, snacks, lottery tickets. “You’ll buy anything, won’t you?” I cheerfully commented to my neighbour at one point. Not sure he was too pleased.
The other surprising source of amusement was a generally well behaved eighteen month old. Confident, loved an audience, did little short of marching up and down the aisle towards the end, introducing herself and waiting to be cooed at – which she predictably was. I saw her father donate her mother his iPhone across the aisle, and attempt to entertain her with.. photographs (photographs?) – apparently unaware of the glut of iPhone applications which cater to tots. I donated my iPod, pointing out the Wheels On The Bus app. This was gratefully accepted and kept the infant entertained for a good half an hour. Further tips were given to mother and father when the plane came to a halt.
My hefty sports holdall had survived the crate size test without too much of a squeeze at departure, so had been allowed aboard as hand luggage, much to the surprise of my neighbour when I swapped Mitchell for Perrotta. “However did you get that on as hand luggage? It’s massive!”
This allowed me what would’ve been a quicker exit, had it not been for my need to buy a plug adapter, forgotten twice earlier in the day, and the need to rehydrate – having spurned all offers of heinously priced sleasydrinks.
Once this was done I exited the building and broached a hazy, sticky evening. No buses or commercial bus stops were quickly evident. I saw the two plain girls who’d been sitting around me on the plane inspecting a solitary signpost. “Have we figured it out yet then?” I asked as I approached. They turned round, smiling and human. One of them was half Portuguese so spoke the lingo. She also dressed like an old lady, a cardigan done up to the neck. We agreed to share a cab into town. During the twenty-minute ride I chatted with the other one in the back, a London born software engineer. Smart, well-travelled, interesting, not quite as plain as her friend. There was the unspoken potential of swapping details and meeting up while we were both in the area, and I was clearly alone. I considered offering a card but didn’t. We settled up the fare at a narrow old street which the cab driver assured me led to my hotel. “Maybe we’ll see you on the flight back!” one of them said. I nodded maybe, waved and clunked the door shut, before embarking on yet another frantic inventory-check of pockets. I had everything, yes, didn’t I? Yes. I had everything. They drove on.
The cab driver was correct; it was an easy, short walk. I was greeted by a plump, professional native receptionist with huge breasts and a low cut top. All that quite necessary leaning over the desk at forms was rather traumatising, the dark lolloping parting staring me out. Paperwork completed with the minimum of fuss, she handed me a key to Room 101. I knew a few people who might put me there.
Room 101 turned out to be rather better than just one room of bad, wrong things cast into oblivion for all of time. A large, high-ceilinged, ensuite bedroom adjoined a separate kitchen and living space, enabling me to cook from my paltry canon of meals and keep a reasonable amount of food. This cheered me, although this was tempered by finding that the power-points failed to match the adapter I’d bought in the airport.
However, that provided the next exchange of note. After a small grocery shop at a nearby supermarket I asked the checkout girl who was dutifully packing my bags for me. A short girl with a pretty cherub’s face, she somehow immediately knew my nationality and spoke to me in perfect English. I explained the plug dilemma and she wanted to help so much I was almost compelled to hug her. I said that I’d looked in the appropriate aisle but I didn’t see one, so not to worry. She seemed sure there were and, as there were no other customers, we walked back over. She was crestfallen to find there were none. I was sad and touched that she was so sad for me and I wanted to take her home. The customer service difference compared to back home bludgeoned me over the head with a baseball bat.
Zigzagging back through the muggy damp, hue-moistened streets to my apartment, I was stopped. “Eh, Amigo,” the handsome young guy of a handsome young couple said to me, before opening a map to consult. “Ai! Ingles, desculpe!” I shook my head, he tutted and shook his; his cute girlfriend smiled and we walked our separate ways, me floating lightly on the perverse thrill of being taken for a local here of all places, where most people are tanned and beautiful.
Tuesday, 14 September 2010
Steamed open
He pushed the door open and the conversation inside ceased, he became an interruption. He pulled the door closed behind him and sat down, his swimming shorts squeltching against the marble. Opposite him was a large, smoothly bronzed man, and along the stone bench was the middle-aged woman, her legs stretched out in front of her.
After several seconds’ silence, she resumed.
“So I only come here on Tuesdays and Thursdays usually because it’s much quieter,” she told her original company. “At the weekend there are so many children.”
She spoke in clipped, Slavic tones. The man nodded his agreement, not caring one way or the other, not appearing hugely keen on having the conversation at all.
“So many children,” she confirmed, her distaste of children clear enough. “But now it is nice and quiet.”
The man nodded.
It wasn’t THAT quiet, the younger man thought. He’d been on weekend evenings when it had been quieter than this.
“Do you work every day?” she asked the man
“No, I don’t work,” he said in softly spoken Welsh tones, wanting to leave it at that. But he soon realised that she wouldn’t. She would pepper him with questions for as long as he sat there, or twitter away to anyone who’d listen.
“Oh.”
“Took early retirement last year at 50,” he conceded. The man did not look 50 years of age. Bronzed, smooth - was it possible to reach fifty and still be so hairless? the younger man wondered. He must wax. Muscular too, the peak of physical fitness, early retirement at 50, financially secure. The younger man opposite him steamed enviously.
“The army?” she guessed, almost childishly, “or a builder? Down in the mines?” She was enjoying herself, flattering him with macho professions.
“Steelworks,” he said. “They were laying lots of people off you know, youngsters coming through. I volunteered because I had a private pension.
“Oh, perhaps one day some easy job will come up?”
“No, I don’t want to work. Moving abroad soon.”
“Oh yes? To where? To Spain?” she guessed at random, wanting to get something right.
“Bulgaria.”
“Bulgaria?”
The unexpected country halted the flow of her questions.
“I am from Russia originally and so we don’t trust the former.. you know,” she trailed off. “We think they will look to cheat us or..”
Both men smiled at her loyalty and old-fashioned caution. The younger man thought of breaking his silence by saying something comparable about being an Englishman in Wales, but didn’t.
“You are going to buy a house there?” she asked, apparently recovered.
“Bought one.”
“Oh, so you and your wife will settle there now, yes?”
He smiled and mumbled about a new life, never qualifying who the ‘we’ was supposed to refer to. The younger man wondered at this clean-cut man’s sexuality for a second, the rough and tumble of steel worker life. For all his size and obvious strength, there was a coy softness about him. Men who looked like this usually had booming voices that travelled effortlessly, natural mannerisms which could fill a stage.
“That's enough in here for me, I think,” he said. He stood up and, looking mildly harassed, left the steam room.
After several seconds’ silence, she resumed.
“So I only come here on Tuesdays and Thursdays usually because it’s much quieter,” she told her original company. “At the weekend there are so many children.”
She spoke in clipped, Slavic tones. The man nodded his agreement, not caring one way or the other, not appearing hugely keen on having the conversation at all.
“So many children,” she confirmed, her distaste of children clear enough. “But now it is nice and quiet.”
The man nodded.
It wasn’t THAT quiet, the younger man thought. He’d been on weekend evenings when it had been quieter than this.
“Do you work every day?” she asked the man
“No, I don’t work,” he said in softly spoken Welsh tones, wanting to leave it at that. But he soon realised that she wouldn’t. She would pepper him with questions for as long as he sat there, or twitter away to anyone who’d listen.
“Oh.”
“Took early retirement last year at 50,” he conceded. The man did not look 50 years of age. Bronzed, smooth - was it possible to reach fifty and still be so hairless? the younger man wondered. He must wax. Muscular too, the peak of physical fitness, early retirement at 50, financially secure. The younger man opposite him steamed enviously.
“The army?” she guessed, almost childishly, “or a builder? Down in the mines?” She was enjoying herself, flattering him with macho professions.
“Steelworks,” he said. “They were laying lots of people off you know, youngsters coming through. I volunteered because I had a private pension.
“Oh, perhaps one day some easy job will come up?”
“No, I don’t want to work. Moving abroad soon.”
“Oh yes? To where? To Spain?” she guessed at random, wanting to get something right.
“Bulgaria.”
“Bulgaria?”
The unexpected country halted the flow of her questions.
“I am from Russia originally and so we don’t trust the former.. you know,” she trailed off. “We think they will look to cheat us or..”
Both men smiled at her loyalty and old-fashioned caution. The younger man thought of breaking his silence by saying something comparable about being an Englishman in Wales, but didn’t.
“You are going to buy a house there?” she asked, apparently recovered.
“Bought one.”
“Oh, so you and your wife will settle there now, yes?”
He smiled and mumbled about a new life, never qualifying who the ‘we’ was supposed to refer to. The younger man wondered at this clean-cut man’s sexuality for a second, the rough and tumble of steel worker life. For all his size and obvious strength, there was a coy softness about him. Men who looked like this usually had booming voices that travelled effortlessly, natural mannerisms which could fill a stage.
“That's enough in here for me, I think,” he said. He stood up and, looking mildly harassed, left the steam room.
Monday, 13 September 2010
Minor grievances / Galgutted
Scanning the library shelves I kept repeating the names of the three authors in my head: Dunmore, Galgut, Chalkas (?) – if that’s how you say / spell it. I held little hope for any of them, given their contemporariness and likely popularity. However, as I reversed through the Gs, then spun around to face the GAs, I saw the Galgut.
The day before I’d taken a long, scenic, glorious walk through rolling countryside and listened to many podcasts along the way, mostly cultural reviews of film, music and books. One had passingly discussed this booker shortlisted title, In A Strange Room, by Damon Galgut. I had heard it discussed in podcasts before. It appealed: a dreamy sounding semi-autobiographical tale of three separate but interconnected journeys, a slim book of the kind I might stupidly aspire to write.
There it was. I took a sharp intake of breath and pulled it from the shelf – brand new but with that uncomfortable protective seal which all library books wear, like a disagreeable plastic sheet on an infant’s bed. As if conscious that the book could easily be spotted in my grasp and confiscated from me, I held it low to my thigh and made for one of the large windows across the large open space, then flopped down on a comfortable armchair, already sated by my smug glory.
Shit, I thought, not quite as eloquently as the book. This was good. I suddenly felt compelled to devour the whole book in one sitting, however long it took, then I quickly realised I couldn’t. Guilt, inboxes and paying duties would call.
I read 33 pages, saw another book en route to the automated machine – DBC Pierre’s latest – then tried to take them out. The machine rejected the books and ordered me to take them to a manned desk. My gut squirmed with irrationally strong fear that the book would be wrenched from me. “No, can’t let you have this one," the bald, blank man told me, indicating the Galgut. "It’s been reserved by someone else.”
It shouldn’t have been on the bloody shelf in the first place then, SHOULD IT? – I didn’t say. Because what was the point? Just take it. Accept another slap.
These things have been snowballing of late: minor grievances which in and of themselves are just that: small irritations. Some are marginally larger than others irritations, but all are essentially inconsequential. The second DVD rental in a short space of time which was faulty, ruining an long-anticipated pleasure; a bicycle too broken to justify the expense of fixing; a temperamental iPod; confusingly unclear directions during the walk; a weak handbrake which made hill parking unwise; slow drying laundry; the biting misery of the lonely which must be concealed for the sake of coolness and self-pride, but which never gets easier.
You have to be realistic and rational in the face of these things, however minor, significant or stupidly allegorical they can appear: this route doesn’t make any bloody sense! Woah, deep man. Fuck off, brain. And there are no direct correlations here. Finding the freezer door open can invoke preposterous anger. Be strong, keep going, take on the next week, see if anything different happens.
I sulked out of the library and walked a short distance up the road to purchase the book from the nearest Waterstones book shop. I wanted to read all of it now I’d bitten a decent chunk off. I hadn’t wanted to buy or own it, but now I’d started, I would. Fuck the library bastards.
Taking it from the new shelf I found my deeply programmed frugality offended at paying full price for such a thin book, the small thrill of its newness and the lack of a protective plastic cover almost non-existent. (Another thing). I paid a smiley young shop assistant with a grudging smile, instantly regretting paying by card as soon as I'd entered it in the machine. I had enough cash on me. (Another thing).
Why was I being such a miserable bitter dick? I was my father again. Like the day before when I was mentally composing the letter of complaint to the author of those terrible directions. I hated it when that happened.
I left the bookshop and walked past a church, a lone woman crying under its arch. She could’ve lost a loved one or received bad news about her health. What were my problems compared to these grown up ones; serious ones which could form plot-lines in hospital dramas and Eastenders? Nothing at all. Comedic ones which might make Adrian Mole or The Inbetweeners.
Queuing in Starbucks I made a silly face at an infant who was staring at me from a nearby table, then I made that pu-pu sound which tots in their teen months seem to be engaged by. A toddler equivalent of the kissing noise which alerts cats. This one smiled even more widely at the noise and his two female guardians laughed along. Three seconds was enough of that. I smiled weakly at the adults, didn’t remove my headphones and faced ahead again, remembering I was supposed to be annoyed and embattled and a dick. I shuffled forwards, looked gravely at a smug plump banana muffin, all full of itself, and waited.
The day before I’d taken a long, scenic, glorious walk through rolling countryside and listened to many podcasts along the way, mostly cultural reviews of film, music and books. One had passingly discussed this booker shortlisted title, In A Strange Room, by Damon Galgut. I had heard it discussed in podcasts before. It appealed: a dreamy sounding semi-autobiographical tale of three separate but interconnected journeys, a slim book of the kind I might stupidly aspire to write.
There it was. I took a sharp intake of breath and pulled it from the shelf – brand new but with that uncomfortable protective seal which all library books wear, like a disagreeable plastic sheet on an infant’s bed. As if conscious that the book could easily be spotted in my grasp and confiscated from me, I held it low to my thigh and made for one of the large windows across the large open space, then flopped down on a comfortable armchair, already sated by my smug glory.
“Memories come back of other places he has waited in, departure halls of airports, bus-stations, lonely kerbsides in the heat, and in all of them there is an identical strain of melancholy summed up in a few transitory details… From this particular place he will retain the vision of a cracked brick wall growing hotter and hotter in the sun.”
“…a sort of primal nervousness descends. But this is also one of the most compelling elements in travel, the feeling of dread underneath everything, it makes sensations heightened and acute, the world is charged with a power it doesn’t have in ordinary life.”
Damon Galgut, In A Strange Room
Shit, I thought, not quite as eloquently as the book. This was good. I suddenly felt compelled to devour the whole book in one sitting, however long it took, then I quickly realised I couldn’t. Guilt, inboxes and paying duties would call.
I read 33 pages, saw another book en route to the automated machine – DBC Pierre’s latest – then tried to take them out. The machine rejected the books and ordered me to take them to a manned desk. My gut squirmed with irrationally strong fear that the book would be wrenched from me. “No, can’t let you have this one," the bald, blank man told me, indicating the Galgut. "It’s been reserved by someone else.”
It shouldn’t have been on the bloody shelf in the first place then, SHOULD IT? – I didn’t say. Because what was the point? Just take it. Accept another slap.
These things have been snowballing of late: minor grievances which in and of themselves are just that: small irritations. Some are marginally larger than others irritations, but all are essentially inconsequential. The second DVD rental in a short space of time which was faulty, ruining an long-anticipated pleasure; a bicycle too broken to justify the expense of fixing; a temperamental iPod; confusingly unclear directions during the walk; a weak handbrake which made hill parking unwise; slow drying laundry; the biting misery of the lonely which must be concealed for the sake of coolness and self-pride, but which never gets easier.
You have to be realistic and rational in the face of these things, however minor, significant or stupidly allegorical they can appear: this route doesn’t make any bloody sense! Woah, deep man. Fuck off, brain. And there are no direct correlations here. Finding the freezer door open can invoke preposterous anger. Be strong, keep going, take on the next week, see if anything different happens.
I sulked out of the library and walked a short distance up the road to purchase the book from the nearest Waterstones book shop. I wanted to read all of it now I’d bitten a decent chunk off. I hadn’t wanted to buy or own it, but now I’d started, I would. Fuck the library bastards.
Taking it from the new shelf I found my deeply programmed frugality offended at paying full price for such a thin book, the small thrill of its newness and the lack of a protective plastic cover almost non-existent. (Another thing). I paid a smiley young shop assistant with a grudging smile, instantly regretting paying by card as soon as I'd entered it in the machine. I had enough cash on me. (Another thing).
Why was I being such a miserable bitter dick? I was my father again. Like the day before when I was mentally composing the letter of complaint to the author of those terrible directions. I hated it when that happened.
I left the bookshop and walked past a church, a lone woman crying under its arch. She could’ve lost a loved one or received bad news about her health. What were my problems compared to these grown up ones; serious ones which could form plot-lines in hospital dramas and Eastenders? Nothing at all. Comedic ones which might make Adrian Mole or The Inbetweeners.
Queuing in Starbucks I made a silly face at an infant who was staring at me from a nearby table, then I made that pu-pu sound which tots in their teen months seem to be engaged by. A toddler equivalent of the kissing noise which alerts cats. This one smiled even more widely at the noise and his two female guardians laughed along. Three seconds was enough of that. I smiled weakly at the adults, didn’t remove my headphones and faced ahead again, remembering I was supposed to be annoyed and embattled and a dick. I shuffled forwards, looked gravely at a smug plump banana muffin, all full of itself, and waited.
end of days
In an extraordinary move intended to ease recessionary burden and tackle binge drinking, the coalition government is set to abolish the traditional sequence of days of the week.
Less ability to organise meetings and generally plan our lives, as well as an uncertainty about being able to tackle the professional effects of getting drunk, will alleviate numerous recessionary tensions, according to the proposal document.
“Everyone knows Britain would be better if we all just chilled out a bit” said David Cameron, through a plume of dense, sickly smoke. “This move, while we appreciate its radical nature, will be welcomed by people. Nobody really LIKES planning things after all. Making lists, yes. Planning, no. Knowing that Monday will follow Sunday, and Tuesday will follow that, those balling Sunday night butterflies: all gone. The knowledge of predictable Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday-Thursday – poof! Vanished.
“Finely scheduled meetings and events are a bore. If we wake up without the certainty of knowing what day of the week it is, then we must simply all just roll with it. If we find the midnight draw has revealed it’s a Sunday, stay in bed. If it’s Thursday the 14th – then get out and move because you’d orchestrated a seminar for this date, although you didn’t know when it would be. There’s the new excitement there, the unpredictability. Consider this a reinjection and reinvigoration of edgy British life through simply not knowing.”
Nick Clegg managed to stifle his previously uncontrollable giggles to echo the sentiments, before going on to add: “We all know routine is dull. Days of the week are outdated now and have been for a long time. We need rather more spontaneity in our otherwise tepid lives today and these plans will deliver that. Sure, it’ll take a short time to adjust and the markets might go a little wobbly for a few days. But hey: it’ll be fun, guys, you know? Just go with us on this one.”
Less ability to organise meetings and generally plan our lives, as well as an uncertainty about being able to tackle the professional effects of getting drunk, will alleviate numerous recessionary tensions, according to the proposal document.
“Everyone knows Britain would be better if we all just chilled out a bit” said David Cameron, through a plume of dense, sickly smoke. “This move, while we appreciate its radical nature, will be welcomed by people. Nobody really LIKES planning things after all. Making lists, yes. Planning, no. Knowing that Monday will follow Sunday, and Tuesday will follow that, those balling Sunday night butterflies: all gone. The knowledge of predictable Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday-Thursday – poof! Vanished.
“Finely scheduled meetings and events are a bore. If we wake up without the certainty of knowing what day of the week it is, then we must simply all just roll with it. If we find the midnight draw has revealed it’s a Sunday, stay in bed. If it’s Thursday the 14th – then get out and move because you’d orchestrated a seminar for this date, although you didn’t know when it would be. There’s the new excitement there, the unpredictability. Consider this a reinjection and reinvigoration of edgy British life through simply not knowing.”
Nick Clegg managed to stifle his previously uncontrollable giggles to echo the sentiments, before going on to add: “We all know routine is dull. Days of the week are outdated now and have been for a long time. We need rather more spontaneity in our otherwise tepid lives today and these plans will deliver that. Sure, it’ll take a short time to adjust and the markets might go a little wobbly for a few days. But hey: it’ll be fun, guys, you know? Just go with us on this one.”
Saturday, 4 September 2010
Through the mill
Glancing at his pint glass across the table from mine, I noticed the liquid level was an inch further down and remembered his gulping, intimidating yet nonchalant drinking pace. Beer was like water to him and appeared to the similar affect.
One to one, man to man, it’s difficult to NOT keep pace; you just have to. I would be drunk before too long.
I remembered his pace from that small Croatian island three years ago when I was on the cusp of my move to London. A group of us had been thrown together and got on well, unknowable pledges to keep in touch had been made at the end of the week, Facebook friend requests had subsequently been accepted, occasional messages, but no more than that. Then a week into my new term in Cardiff we bumped into each other in the street, met up for lunch, and now beer. Copious, free-flowing, fast-paced beer.
I could reign it in though. First game of the season tomorrow, after all. Didn’t want to miss that, not after playing myself into the starting line-up thanks to a couple of passable pre-season performances. Wouldn’t mind seeing the England qualifier too.
Another?
No need to feel the obligation of watching England really. Not after the summer.
Go on then.
They were having no discernible affect on him at all. Whereas I was feeling drunk and wobbly. He was taking more toilet breaks more than me. Perhaps that helped. Neither of us had eaten. We’d sat outside the trendy bar in the street since about five o clock, watched the sun affably fade and the evening rise, the cackling leering weekend Cardiff emerge.
We got on well and shared similar interests: books, music, outdoorsyness, occupations. He was a proper valleys boy, a couple of years older and about a foot shorter. Walking next to him felt awkward, as if I was patronising him by being there. Daresay he was used to it.
A colleague of his walked past the bar and joined us. I teased her, possibly flirted, drunk: infected by Cardiff’s cackling leer? She failed to conceal a smile, said she didn’t like me and bought us a drink; the last one as it turned out. Rum and coke. I was done with San Miguel after more pints than I could remember. They had to get trains back to their valleys. I couldn’t drink anymore and could now get home for the football highlights.
Jermain Defoe had already notched his first of three when I arrived back. Fuck me, I was really drunk. I drank lots of water, which made it worse: stirring an unsettled stomach.
Today saw the worse hangover I’ve experienced in years. My head has pounded relentlessly, I vomited until there was nothing there, just stomach lining, bile and tears, I spat blood at one point and had brief fleeting fears. I text messaged an apology for my absence to the football manager, explaining it as some sort of food poisoning. Sorry. I’d really wanted to play too.
Instead I slept, more than I have slept in any single day in recent memory, mostly in bed, one hour on the sofa after Football Focus. It came in wave after sickening wave, just when the worst seemed beaten, complemented by shivers and shakes and fever and cold. Movement induced nausea and further horrible, exhausting wretches. Sipping water was pointless, reintroducing itself with mulchy interest inside minutes. I slept more. There was no other answer.
Around five o clock, twenty four hours after we had met the previous day, I awoke again. There was an absence I was emotionally grateful for. The squeezing and pulling at my stomach had weakened, I could move my body without wanting to hurl. Could I sip water and..? More gurgling and clanking, but no cold sweats and nausea which heralded those intense contractions and that gravity-defying rush.
A carefully devoured cup of tea and slice of buttered toast was heavenly. Each crumb and drop savoured like it was the first thing I’d eaten anything for months. Would it go down and stay down?
I waited. Things gurgled and processed. No sweating or nausea or horrid expectation.
Yes, it stayed down. Now I was confident I would pull through and this traumatising ordeal would be over.
I stank.
One to one, man to man, it’s difficult to NOT keep pace; you just have to. I would be drunk before too long.
I remembered his pace from that small Croatian island three years ago when I was on the cusp of my move to London. A group of us had been thrown together and got on well, unknowable pledges to keep in touch had been made at the end of the week, Facebook friend requests had subsequently been accepted, occasional messages, but no more than that. Then a week into my new term in Cardiff we bumped into each other in the street, met up for lunch, and now beer. Copious, free-flowing, fast-paced beer.
I could reign it in though. First game of the season tomorrow, after all. Didn’t want to miss that, not after playing myself into the starting line-up thanks to a couple of passable pre-season performances. Wouldn’t mind seeing the England qualifier too.
Another?
No need to feel the obligation of watching England really. Not after the summer.
Go on then.
They were having no discernible affect on him at all. Whereas I was feeling drunk and wobbly. He was taking more toilet breaks more than me. Perhaps that helped. Neither of us had eaten. We’d sat outside the trendy bar in the street since about five o clock, watched the sun affably fade and the evening rise, the cackling leering weekend Cardiff emerge.
We got on well and shared similar interests: books, music, outdoorsyness, occupations. He was a proper valleys boy, a couple of years older and about a foot shorter. Walking next to him felt awkward, as if I was patronising him by being there. Daresay he was used to it.
A colleague of his walked past the bar and joined us. I teased her, possibly flirted, drunk: infected by Cardiff’s cackling leer? She failed to conceal a smile, said she didn’t like me and bought us a drink; the last one as it turned out. Rum and coke. I was done with San Miguel after more pints than I could remember. They had to get trains back to their valleys. I couldn’t drink anymore and could now get home for the football highlights.
Jermain Defoe had already notched his first of three when I arrived back. Fuck me, I was really drunk. I drank lots of water, which made it worse: stirring an unsettled stomach.
Today saw the worse hangover I’ve experienced in years. My head has pounded relentlessly, I vomited until there was nothing there, just stomach lining, bile and tears, I spat blood at one point and had brief fleeting fears. I text messaged an apology for my absence to the football manager, explaining it as some sort of food poisoning. Sorry. I’d really wanted to play too.
Instead I slept, more than I have slept in any single day in recent memory, mostly in bed, one hour on the sofa after Football Focus. It came in wave after sickening wave, just when the worst seemed beaten, complemented by shivers and shakes and fever and cold. Movement induced nausea and further horrible, exhausting wretches. Sipping water was pointless, reintroducing itself with mulchy interest inside minutes. I slept more. There was no other answer.
Around five o clock, twenty four hours after we had met the previous day, I awoke again. There was an absence I was emotionally grateful for. The squeezing and pulling at my stomach had weakened, I could move my body without wanting to hurl. Could I sip water and..? More gurgling and clanking, but no cold sweats and nausea which heralded those intense contractions and that gravity-defying rush.
A carefully devoured cup of tea and slice of buttered toast was heavenly. Each crumb and drop savoured like it was the first thing I’d eaten anything for months. Would it go down and stay down?
I waited. Things gurgled and processed. No sweating or nausea or horrid expectation.
Yes, it stayed down. Now I was confident I would pull through and this traumatising ordeal would be over.
I stank.
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